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Monday, February 11, 2013

John Pearce: The IAN Interview

I started gathering
the material for Treasure of Saint-Lazare during my days as a journalist in
Washington and Germany, where I covered economics and finance for Associated
Press and then the International Herald Tribune. I developed a keen interest in
World War II when I lived down the street from an immense air-raid bunker in
Frankfurt and kept on top of the war literature when I returned to the United
States and went into business.

I only recently found
time to write, and the first thought I had (as any novelist does) was “what
if”? My what-if moment was the time I
realized there was a world-famous painting by the Italian old master Raphael, a
contemporary of Leonardo, that was lost at the end of the war – and was still
missing. From there it was but a short jump to a story about a hellish
consortium of crooks who thought they knew where to find it.

IAN. Please tell us
about your latest book

JP.Treasure of
Saint-Lazare is the story of one man’s grudging quest for the truth. My
protagonist, Eddie Grant, is a man who life has not treated at all well. His
father, his wife and his young son were killed several years before the book’s
action and he has been working ever since to dig out from under the emotional
and psycological avalanche that brought down on him.

I’ve been extremely
gratified at how well it’s been received. I’m a first-time author publishing
from a tiny publishing company, and Treasure of Saint-Lazare still has ranked
in the top 1% of all Kindle books almost from the time it hit the market. It’s
also been in the Top 100 Kindle historical mysteries almost all of that time,
and in the Top 100 of all Kindle books for about half the time. Needless
to say, I’m pleased.

IAN. How long did it
take to write Treasure of Saint-Lazare?

JP. From concept to
publication, three years. However, the first two years were a sort of
self-imposed timeout. I began the writing but discovered pretty quickly that I
didn’t know how to write a novel, so I stepped back and began a self-study
program. Then I came back to the writing in late 2011 and had it finished and
on the market by October 2012.

IAN. What inspired you
to write the book?

JP. My interest in the
war, in art and in France, in no particular order. Also, I had wanted for years
– decades, really – to write a novel like this. I still have notes from back in
the day for a John Le Carré clone that, fortunately, I had sense enough to kill
and bury.

IAN. Talk about the
writing process.

JP. I worked on
morning newspapers so I’ve never broken the habit of afternoon work. I get up
at a reasonable hour, take a three-mile walk, have a leisurely breakfast, read
the New York Times, and then around lunchtime I turn to work for three to five
hours.

IAN. Did you use an
outline or do you just wing the first draft?

JP. Yes is the best
answer I can give. I don’t do a formal outline but I gather hundreds of notes
using Evernote, which I’ve been using for as long as it’s been in business. I
now have almost 17,000 notes, not all of them about my books. I organize those
notes and construct a rough chapter outline in Scrivener, then write to that
outline.

IAN. Is your book
published in print, e-book or both?

JP. My main market is
Kindle readers, because that’s what I am and that’s where I think the novel
market is headed. I also have a trade paperback, which has been very popular in
Sarasota, FL, where I live, because our population is a touch older and hasn’t
yet fully embraced ebooks, to put it delicately.

IAN. What do you hope
your readers come away with after reading your book?

JP. I hope they see a
story of a man’s ability to change his life when he’s forced to step up to an
unwanted task. My protagonist, Eddie, is far from a perfect guy but he knows
his failings and makes huge progress toward overcoming them.

IAN. Where can we go
to buy Treasure of Saint-Lazare?

JP. Amazon.

IAN. Tell us about
your next book or a work in progress. Is it a sequel or a stand alone?

JP. I’ve finished
plotting a sequel and have begun the writing. My publication goal is third
quarter 2013, but I’m willing to let that slide if another few months will give
me the chance to polish it.

For
more than a hundred years, the Hôtel Luxor had stood imperiously on the narrow
sidewalk of Rue Saint-Roch. Its cut-stone façade and wrought-iron balconies
reflected to perfection the austere design dictated by Baron Haussmann when he
razed and then rebuilt whole sections of the city for his patron, Emperor
Napoleon III. Its sole distinguishing feature, other than a discreet brass
plaque bearing the hotel’s name over four stars, was an immense revolving door
made of dark-stained oak and brass, which the hotel staff polished every day to
a mirror finish. The single doors on either side of it stood open in the
glorious late-spring weather that often settles over the city in mid June.
Spring turning to summer is the time all the other Parisian seasons envy, and
this June day was one of the best.

Late
afternoon was a slow time for the reception manager — he was born to the hotel
world and would stay at the Luxor until he died. His name was Monsieur Duval,
and he believed he was at least partly responsible when the hotel received its
coveted fourth star the year before. M Duval arrived at work each morning in
casual dress — that is, he wore no tie with his starched white shirt, which his
wife had carefully ironed that morning. In the small cloakroom behind the
reception desk he changed to a dove-gray suit, adding a silk tie a few shades
darker. Only Eddie and the payroll clerk knew his first name, so complete was
his devotion to both his privacy and his guests’.

He
was peering suspiciously at a slightly loose button on the left sleeve of his
jacket just as Eddie’s tall silhouette filled the open door, then stood aside
to let Jen Wetzmuller enter the lobby. He followed, pulling her wheeled
suitcase.

“Bonjour,
Madame, bonjour, M Grant. Welcome back.” M Duval said seriously, no smile. His
hand came from beneath the counter holding two envelopes, which he handed to
Eddie. “You have a little mail today. Not much.”

“Thank
you. M Duval, allow me to present Madame Wetzmuller, who is visiting me and my
mother for a few days. Her father and mine were close associates during the
war.”

“The
Luxor is very pleased to have you as its guest, Madame,” M Duval said gravely. “Please ask for anything you need.” Surprised by his formality, she muttered a
barely audible “merci,” then managed a tight smile and a dip of her head.

Eddie
bypassed the large winding staircase he normally took to his apartment on the
top floor, instead leading Jen toward the elevators to its left. He pressed the
button marked 7 but the elevator did not move until he entered a code into the
keypad above. “Remember the code, 6161,” he told her.

As
they rose, he reflected that Jen had retained the fresh air of youth he’d
admired in 1988. She wore a traveler’s outfit of white blouse and pleated blue
skirt, and had coaxed her hair into a shape he had not seen in Paris for
several years. With difficulty, he brought it back from his very small store of
fashion knowledge — coupe à la Jeanne d’Arc — pageboy cut,
that had been its name, and it had been popular in the U.S. twenty years before.
Despite the June warmth she had a sweater over her shoulders. The skirt fell
precisely to the top of her knees, and her legs were as attractive as he
remembered. She wore a delicate perfume he couldn’t identify, except to
remember that it was different from the one she’d worn in 1988. Under the
perfume there was the delicious woman smell he’d immersed himself in during
their three days together.

She
looked up at him and said gently, “It’s been a very long time. I never expected
to see you again.”

“Nor
did I. But I could never forget those three days in Sarasota.”

“They
were memorable, weren’t they?” She smiled at him for the first time, a generous
open smile that lighted her deep blue eyes and told him his disappearance was
forgiven, if not forgotten. The weight of mortal sin lifted from him.

She
broke the silence as they passed the fifth floor. “What happened after?”

“Pretty
much as planned. I went into the Army, served in Desert Storm, then came home
to Paris.”

“Did
you ever marry?”

“Yes,
once. You? My wife died.”

“That
is sad. I married once, for three years. A big-time cardiologist who wanted a
younger wife. It lasted until he found another blonde trophy.”

“Then
you’ve stayed in Sarasota?”

“God
knows why. It’s a beautiful town but no place for a single woman my age. It’s a
huge, deep pool of blue-collar men looking for college-educated women and,
surprisingly, finding them. I’m almost too old for that group now. I suppose
I’ll sign up for the club of unhappy middle-aged divorcées and widows who understand
deep down they’ll spend nights alone for the rest of their lives.

“You’re
selling yourself short. We’re only forty and you still look like the girl I
knew back then. It’s far too early to start wearing black and sitting in a
rocker on your front porch.”

“Thanks
for that. You haven’t done badly yourself. You still have all that black black
hair I admired. And you still carry yourself like a West Pointer.” She smiled
again.

They
stood in silence until the elevator stopped. The door opened and she stepped
out into a small lobby decorated in Second Empire style. A marble table held a
large bouquet of yellow flowers, which complemented the blue walls.

“Just
one door?”

“This
floor was an afterthought some time after the building was built. It’s a little
smaller than the others, which is the reason the city has winked at it. The
French are pragmatic about that sort of thing. If it pushes a little over the
edge of the law but doesn’t hurt anything, they generally close their eyes. It
was a little risky, but I decided to turn the entire floor into my own
apartment.”